


promise of spring

by ash_and_starlight



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, I really tried y'all, Jon Snow is a flat earther, Jon lives happily ever after with the wildlings, M/M, Nightmares, Og sadboy Jon, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, UST to RST, and gets some well deserved TLC, fuck the sadness away, let's get this bread lads, love is stored in the Tormund, mentions of blood and death, shameless references to viking lore, there's TRAUMA to unpack ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:15:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26064094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ash_and_starlight/pseuds/ash_and_starlight
Summary: They are both lost, in a way, warriors trying to build a new life in peacetimes. Finding solace on the easy closeness that has blossomed through battlefields and harsh winters.These nights have become somewhat of a ritual between the two of them, since Jon left the Wall with the Free Folk. When the pull of the darkness was too strong and the smell of charred meat filled his nostrils, too sharp to bear, Jon would go to find Tormund. Each time they would trade stories, share drinks and food in front of the fire, and each time Jon found it a little more difficult to leave.Or: During a sleepless night, Jon goes to Tormund for comfort.
Relationships: Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow
Comments: 28
Kudos: 173





	promise of spring

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first time writing a fic and I’m EXTREMELY NERVOUS about it, but the world needs more Jonmund so I decided to take one for the team and write lol. I hope you all enjoy! xx

When the Gods are kind, Jon dreams the dream of wolves.

There’s a welcome comfort in the familiar strength of the beast, in its mind unburdened by human matters. Wolves have no need for duty or guilt, for empty vows and bloodied crowns. The wolf-dreams are the only moments in which Jon can taste freedom, the carefree thrill of running in the darkness of the forest, under the silver blessing of mother moon.

This is no such night.

Since Jon left the South, many of his wolf-dreams have been replaced with death and cinders, a war going on restlessly in his mind.

All that is left now is encompassing darkness, the panic of falling into the ice, a city in ruin. The landscape of Jon’s dreams is desolate, a lone Weirwood tree standing among the charred debris, its leaves a shock of red against the washed out sky. The ground is warm, soft, completely covered in a blanket of white ashes.

There’s blood. The scent so thick that Jon can taste iron on his tongue. It’s in the air, weeping from the Weirwood’s eyes, from the deep gashes in its bone-white trunk. It drips from its leaves, staining droplets on the ground and on Jon’s hands alike.

There’s smoke, always, burning wood and burning flesh. It stings Jon’s eyes and scorches his skin, fills his nose and mouth until he chokes. It closes around him as heavy and suffocating as a tomb, and as his vision goes dark he prays _this time, don’t let me come back again—_

In the distance, the mournful howl of a wolf pierces the night.

Jon wakes with a shout clawing up his throat and the cold biting at his skin. He’s shivering, sweat soaked hair plastered to his forehead, a stab of pain on every agonized breath he takes.

He looks around the darkness of the tent, trying to find Ghost’s comforting presence, dread rising in his throat when he doesn’t see him anywhere. The direwolf is away most of the nights now, hunting, running wild in the nearby forest. Jon wishes he could do the same.

Staying in the silence of the tent is quickly becoming unbearable, and it’s pointless to try to sleep again now. Gods know that even the few hours he managed to get are a blessing.

Jon throws a heavy coat on his shoulders, trying not to mind his shaking hands, and fumbles out in the night. He takes a deep breath once outside, drawing in lungfuls of frozen air to steady himself. It’s snowing lightly, much more gently than the fanged winter storms he’s accustomed to, and he relishes the almost timid kiss of the snow against his face.

There’s only the moon to witness as he walks to the great fires at the center of the camp, and then onward still. Jon doesn’t stop until he’s at the outskirts of the settlement, in front of a large circular tent. It’s a path he knows very well, his feet carrying him there almost on their own accord after having walked it on more than one sleepless night.

Part of him thinks it’s pointless, seeking out comfort like a spooked child, but he still feels too shaken and on edge to go back to his bed, surrounded by silence and the smell of smoke.

And besides, there’s only one place where he wants to be right now, as foolish as it might be.

He gathers what’s left of his scattered courage and calls for Tormund, desperately hoping to not be ignored, sighing in relief when the tent flap opens to reveal a rather mussed up Tormund on the other side.

“Jon,” he says with his usual cheerfulness despite the late hour, and then he looks behind him, a frown pulling on his brows. “Where’s that beastie of yours?”

It’s still amusing how Jon's direwolf, usually so quiet and sullen, has become little more than a spoiled lordling’s lap dog under Tormund’s care. For his part Tormund does nothing to uphold Ghost’s reputation; he talks to him like he would to a babe, ruffling his fur, feeding the wolf strips of seal jerky he keeps in his pocket just for him.

It warms Jon’s heart and hurts him in equal turns, how close they have become. All the fondness for each other only made possible because he had abandoned them both, to try and do the honorable thing fighting someone else’s war in the South.

“Ghost is, uh, hunting. I think,” Jon mutters, and Tormund nods.

“Come inside already, wouldn’t want your balls to shrink and freeze.”

Jon follows him inside, pointedly ignoring every remark at his supposedly shrinking balls. “I’m sorry to barge in this late at night,” he says in apology, fidgeting with the strings of his gloves. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Tormund shrugs and sits next to the small fire, gesturing for Jon to settle down by his side. 

“Ye’r always welcome to my tent, boy,” he says with a sly grin that makes Jon’s ears go red.

He gratefully accepts the drinking horn that Tormund offers him, full to the brim with fermented goat milk. _Khavj_ the wildlings call it, in the old tongue of the forest clans. It still tastes like shit, and will probably knock Jon out in no time on an empty stomach, but it’s warm, and it’s strong enough to wash away the bitterness of dreams clinging to his tongue. At the moment, it’s exactly what he needs. He manages only a slight grimace at the taste, clenching his jaw against a cough.

_We’ll make a wildling of you yet!_ Tormund had bellowed the first time Jon tried it, in a quiet night much like this one, and Jon had immediately made a fool of himself by spitting it all out and having a near fatal coughing fit. It’s all about acquired taste, he muses.

Jon stares into the fire, at the little sparks of light flying into the air. The heat of the flames being slowly matched by the warmth from the alcohol in his belly and, he acknowledges with a slight flush, from the presence of the man next to him.

Tormund bumps his shoulder into him, once again saving Jon from his brooding. “Nightmares again?” He asks gently, and Jon sighs, he couldn’t avoid it much longer.

“Aye,” he says. “It’s getting better since I came here, but sometimes it’s still… difficult, to be at peace with the past.”

The unspoken words hang in the air, fragile and painful. A thousand glass shards. In truth Jon is riddled with ghosts, the wrong he has done, the people he loved and failed. They cling to his dreams and to his mind, and when he wakes he is left hollow, aching.

Tormund just nods, a strange look on his face that borders on concern, but doesn’t pry further. It’s strangely reassuring how well Tormund can read him. It feels like acceptance, and understanding. Jon is still not sure to deserve either.

Deep down Jon knows that Tormund’s dreams must be plagued as well, even if he does a far better job at hiding it. They have faced the same horrors after all, and even if he has never been told the details, he knows Tormund had lost a lover and a young son to the wights during his time with Mance’s horde.

They are both lost, in a way, warriors trying to build a new life in peacetimes. Finding solace in the easy closeness that has blossomed through battlefields and harsh winters.

These nights have become somewhat of a ritual between the two of them, since Jon left the Wall with the Free Folk. When the pull of the darkness was too strong and the smell of charred meat filled his nostrils, too sharp to bear, Jon would go to find Tormund. Each time they would trade stories, share drinks and food in front of the fire, and each time Jon found it a little more difficult to leave.

Tormund would tell Jon the legends of his people, of a different time, when the Gods roamed the land. Of Gerthrud the Forger and Horrin the Mad, who tied his prick to a goat and got dragged across the hills for one day and one night, just to win a bet. Jon was laughing so hard by the end of that story that he could feel tears streaming down his face.

And even if he has never been much of a storyteller Jon tells him his fondest memories in turn. Half forgotten moments from a lifetime ago, shadows of laughter and crisp summer mornings: secretly teaching Arya how to hold a sword, fishing with his brothers by the river, playing fetch with Ghost, barely more than a pup. Little precious things he thought he’d never tell anyone.

It’s often the only chance they have to talk alone, since both of their days are spent into work at the new settlement. Tormund easily filling his role as one of the chieftains and Jon offering to do as much as he could, hunting and building and tending to the fires.

He’s telling Tormund about his morning adventure in tanning deer pelts, guided by a little group of elderly spear wives that clearly didn’t need his help, but were patient enough to teach him anyway. He quietly endured the good natured jokes at his expenses, the brazen jabs and the cheek-pinching. They insisted on offering him smoked fish and honeyed mead after, once the work was done, to “put some meat on these scrawny bird bones.” He parted from them embarrassed but thankful, his arms sore and his lips sticky-sweet with honey.

Tormund guffaws and pinches his cheek as well, mirth dancing in his eyes. Jon tries to not think too much about how good it feels to make him smile.

“Your turn to tell a story,” says Jon, immediately cutting off Tormund’s dangerous grin with a small chuckle. “ _Please_ not the bear again.”

“Oh, and here I thought you loved that one,” Tormund pouts exaggeratedly in mock offense, wagging his eyebrows.

Jon just shoots him a sidelong glance, a small smile curling unbidden at the corner of his mouth. Loved might be a far stretch, but in all fairness he _had_ asked Tormund to tell that tale, only days ago, after a few drinks in celebration of a successful hunt, and for a while the world hadn’t felt so heavy on his shoulders. The look of devious delight that lit up Tormund’s face had been worth the terrible bear-fucking story that followed. Even now Jon supposes he had it coming.

“There’s an old tale we tell to the little ones, y’know, when they keep whining and cannot sleep,” Tormund says then, a teasing edge still coloring his voice.

“Of how our world came to sit on the great roots of the first Heart Tree, born of blood and bone, with a trunk as wide as the widest mountain, and branches so high as to pierce the skies —”

Jon hides his laughter too late.

“What, ye don’t believe me?”

“The world _can’t_ be a tree.“

“Hah! And why not, Lord Snow?” There’s a challenge there, hidden in the formal title.

“I just…” Jon answers, trying to hold back more snickering, “I was always told that the world was… flat, a vast expanse of land. And that after the mountains and the seas there was the endless abyss, and certain death.”

He remembers vividly the boring days at Winterfell, pouring over maps and dusty tomes with his siblings under the watchful tutoring of Maester Luwin, with his severe bird-like eyes and hands as white and wrinkled as Weirwood bark.

Jon was often scolded for not paying attention to these lessons, wanting nothing more than to bask in the sweetness of summer days. But the old Maester was nothing if not persistent, and so Jon had learnt about the Wall, and the Riverlands, the golden beaches of the South, and the dark precipice at the end of the seas.

His grief over the loss of these easier times hurt like a still open wound, but he has found out the hard way that it’s pointless to live in the past.

“A great deal of southern horseshit they shoved into that pretty head of yours,” Tormund scoffs, but he’s smiling too, his bright eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Rich coming from you, next thing you’ll tell me ice spiders are real.” Jon shoots back, hiding a laugh in his drinking horn.

“Well because they fucking _are._ ”

“ _Tor._ ”

“We’ll see if you keep that smug little smile when they come bite ye in the ass.” Tormund declares solemnly, and takes another great swig of his drink before continuing his tale.

Watching him talk is mesmerizing.

His hands move in broad, powerful arches, his eyes catching the light, blue and blazingtwin stars. And above the crackling of the fire the low comforting rumble of Tormund’s voice, like gathering clouds and rolling waters. Something in Jon’s chest flutters almost painfully, and he desperately tries to quell it with more sips of his drink.

He’s unwittingly drawn to Tormund, still, closer and closer until he’s leaning against his shoulder. A warm weight at his side, solid and anchoring where he always feels so fractured.

Jon could play it off at drunkenness, he’s sure, blame his unusual vulnerability on the too strong _khavj,_ but it would be only half the truth. Tormund’s arm settles around his shoulders anyway, keeping him close, comfortable and easy as though they have done it a thousand times. And they have, in a way, during feasts and around campfires, but it feels different now, when it’s just the two of them.

It comes as an easy realization to him that in another life, had things been different, more gentle, this could have been his home.

On a whim Jon rests his head against Tormund’s shoulder, before he can shy away and remind himself that he ought to be embarrassed by it. But Tormund doesn’t move, just tightens his hand around Jon to accommodate the weight of his body. Despite his better judgement, Jon lets himself enjoy it.

He cannot recall a moment where he felt so safe. Nor so content, for what matters. And it’s a while before he becomes aware that Tormund has stopped talking. Jon looks up gingerly, daring a glance at Tormund, only to find that the wildling is already looking back at him.

He leans up, but doesn’t draw away. Doesn’t dare to. In the soft light from the dwindling flames Tormund’s expression looks achingly soft, almost pained. There’s an unruly curl of hair hanging before Tormund’s eyes, and in a show of utter madness Jon reaches out and strokes it back, his fingers coming to rest lightly on Tormund’s temple.

Jon doesn’t miss Tormund’s sharp intake of breath, or the slight flush staining his cheeks pink. The tension in his shoulders, like a bowstring drawn taut before the arrow strikes. Jon must be truly going insane now, because he thinks that Tormund is about to kiss him. He realizes, with a painful twist in his gut, that he wants him to.

Want has always been such a dangerous thing.

There are a million things he needs to say, climbing up his throat and pushing against his teeth, so many words he doesn’t trust himself to speak. But it’s Tormund who breaks the silence first.

“Stay.” He whispers, so low it almost goes unheard.

It catches Jon unawares, and he can only blink in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I can see you looking South, when the warm winds blow. Winter is at its end and soon it will be safe to travel again.” He leans back slightly, just enough to look Jon in the eyes. His gaze is unwavering but inexplicably tender. He takes a deep breath, as if to steady himself. “Don’t go back to them,” it sounds insecure, a plea. “ Stay here, Jon, stay with me.” 

_I can’t_. Jon wants to say. _If there’s anything left of my honor I’ll have to leave._ And at the same time there’s part of him, something fanged and fierce and kept hidden for too long, that knows he had decided to stay long ago. That from the moment the heavy gate of the Wall closed behind his shoulders he swore he would never look back.

“Don’t let me go then,” Jon says instead, half a whisper in the small space between them. His fingers dig into Tormund’s arm, hopelessly, as if he’d crumble if he dared to pull away.

It must be good enough for an answer, because Tormund smiles.

“Never, boy, I swear.”

He nudges his forehead against Jon’s, affectionate and gentle, and for a moment all that Jon feels is this, the places where they touch, the sound of his own heartbeat too loud in his ears.

He has never been one for strategy, or plans. Charging first and regretting later had always sat better with him, even for all the trouble that it caused. He sends a quick prayer to the Gods, old and new and those he doesn’t believe in. To grant him one last victory, to not let him lose the only thing he has left.

“Tor,” Jon says, and they are so close now their noses are almost brushing, “I’m about to do something incredibly stupid.”

Even if he doesn’t see it he can feel Tormund’s smile, the cutting remark on the edge of his tongue. _It wouldn’t be the first time, little crow_.

Jon doesn’t allow him the chance to say it, though, before tangling his hand in the hair at Tormund’s nape and bringing their lips together.

The kiss is quick and tentative, a whisper of a thing, and yet it resonates through Jon’s bones louder than battle cries. He sighs in relief as Tormund immediately wraps his arms around him and kisses him back, strong and eager and still surprisingly gentle.

It feels good, it feels _better_ than good. Inevitable. Like the first snow and the pull of the tides. Like he could face the whole army of the dead again for this kiss alone. Jon melts into it, already hopelessly lost.

It’s over far too soon when Tormund leans back and laughs, a low rumbling sound shaking his chest like thunder. “Took you long enough to do that, little crow, my cock was about to fall _off_.”

Jon can’t hide the disgusted pinch of his mouth, but it only makes Tormund’s grin widen. Jon hugs him a little tighter nevertheless, nuzzling close to laugh in his neck.

“What a tragedy,” he says, and Tormund scoffs, turning his head to look at Jon sternly in the eyes.

“Don’t mock my pain, Jon.”

Tormund leans in again, to steal another kiss, featherlight on Jon’s lips, easily followed by a second, and a third on his cheeks, on the fierce blush blooming there. Jon clings to him, trying to return each one, basking in Tormund’s easy affection.

They hold each other like they have to make up for lost time, for all the years and precious moments they have missed.

Jon is so tired of waiting.

It must show on his face, because Tormund’s gaze turns impossibly tender as he brings his hand to Jon’s cheek, stroking the scar on his brow, and this time when they kiss is slower, deeper, and more sweet than it has any right to be.

“Jon,” he breathes when they part, and the soft tilt in his voice sounds so much like wonder.

For all the time they spent in battle Jon had forgotten that they could be gentle as well. That tenderness is something they are allowed to have. With quiet awe Jon’s hands - so painfully used to bloodshed and the hilt of the sword - stroke over Tormund’s face and into the golden glow of his hair, turning war into worship.

Jon is distantly aware of Tormund standing up, pulling him along the few steps that it takes from the fireplace to the bed. And then he’s falling, breathlessly, on soft furs and into Tormund’s arms.

Despite the years that passed since the first time Jon feels again so new and green, as if still a boy, clumsy but eager in the arms of his first love. She had been kissed by fire as well.

He moves until he’s kneeling over Tormund’s lap, their hands fumbling through belts and ties and layers of fur. It’s careless but it's perfect, and he discovers with annoyance that free folk’s heavy clothes are way too complicated to take off while kissing, but it’s not enough to stop him from trying.

Tormund sighs against Jon’s mouth when he finally gets to push away his woolen undershirt and touch the pale skin beneath. He strokes his hands up Jon’s back and then down again, playfully squeezing his backside, and laughs gently when Jon gasps in surprise and blushes a spectacular shade of pink. In retaliation Jon ducks his head, kissing the warm skin of Tormund’s neck, softly biting at his ear.

He is starting to unfasten the lacings of Tormund’s undershirt, but a large hand on top of his own stops him.

“Are you sure?”

It takes Jon a while to realize Tormund has asked him a question, but when he does he just shifts his hips in answer, relishing the little wrecked sound that leaves Tormund’s lips.

“I—Yes, I’d say I’m pretty sure,” Jon whispers, already feeling out of breath. “And you?” He adds as an afterthought. He has always been taught to be courteous, after all, and there’s part of him that still wants, _needs_ , the confirmation that Tormund wants him just as much.

“Gods Jon,” Tormund snorts, shaking his head as if he can’t quite believe what he just heard. “Do i have to tell you how many times I thought about this? About you?”

It’s overwhelming to think that Tormund has waited for this, for _him_ , gods know how long. He doesn’t know how it could even be true, how he could ever be worthy of it.

At Jon’s dumbfounded stare he presses on, moving his warm hand to rest at the crease of Jon’s hip, fitting there as if moulded by the gods themselves.

“I thought about this when you were just a fool crow boy and knelt, and called me King. When you joined the Free Folk and stole Ygritte’s heart, when you fought for us and saved our people at Hardhome. And then, when those fucking crow _cunts_ —” something in Tormund’s expression turns sour, and his voice almost breaks, “I thought it was too late…”

It fills Jon with sorrow, hearing that. So he takes one of Tormund’s hands and presses it against his chest, to his heart, beating strong underneath the gnarled scars, and waits until Tormund meets his gaze. Jon cups his cheek, thumb stroking over the hollow of his cheekbone. He doesn’t think words will ever be enough, but he says them nevertheless, and knows them to be true.

“I’m here now.”

Tormund sighs, the sadness on his face clearing like morning fog. “That you are.”

“I thought about you too, you know?” Jon admits with a twinge of shame in his chest. It took him _so long_ , to realize it, to even accept it of himself. But Tormund just kisses his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, stopping to nudge their noses together. “We have both been fucking fools then,” he chuckles, and just like that Jon feels light again.

Jon presses impossibly closer and kisses him, deep and lingering, as if he can’t get enough, finally removing Tormund’s shirt and pushing him flat down the bedding.

He leans back for a moment just to take in the sight of Tormund, half naked and proud. To his surprise there are intricate lines inked on his skin, old and fading blue. Foreign words, knots and spirals running from his shoulders to his arms, cutting across old scars and disappearing under the red hair of his chest. Jon has never seen anything like that.

He follows their path with awestruck fingers, watching as Tormund’s eyes flutter close in delight. His hand settles on a wide circular design over Tormund’s chest. “What are these?” he asks.

Tormund looks at him then, clear blue eyes crinkling at the corners “Old spells, for good luck in battle, and to always find the way back where you belong.”

Jon bends his head to kiss it, mesmerized by the twisted lines, pleased when he feels Tormund’s grip tighten around his waist.

“And do they work?”

“I’m still alive, my enemies are not.” Tormund states simply. “And we are together, I’d say it works well enough.”

An impossible feeling seizes in Jon’s chest at those words, and he doesn’t resist when Tormund holds him tighter and rolls them over, pressing him into the furs.

Their kiss grows teeth, a wild thing that has Jon’s blood singing in his veins.

He chokes on a moan as Tormund settles above him, pushing a thigh between Jon’s. He’s unmistakably hard through his breeches, they both are, their bodies moving heedlessly together to chase friction and heat.

It feels like too much already, the damp kisses and the arousal coiling low in his spine enough to make Jon shake. Too much and still not enough. Jon brings Tormund closer, stroking over his shoulders and down his back, scars and muscles shifting beneath his touch.

He feels, more than hears, Tormund’s groan as Jon’s hands tangle in his hair, tugging lightly. It’s so good to have him like this, Tormund’s weight pinning him down on the furs and his hands holding strong and sure.

Jon strains his hips up, needing to be closer, letting out a frustrated huff when Tormund leans back just enough to briskly tug both of their breeches off. He’s got an incredibly annoying smirk on his face, no doubt admiring the mess he made of Jon already; skin flushed and hair wild, lips red from kisses and beard burn. Jon’s only consolation is that Tormund doesn’t look much better off.

“Found something you like?” Jon says, trying to sound taunting but coming off a little too breathless, too desperate to have Tormund’s body back against his already.

“Found plenty of that, my little crow,” he says, grinning down at Jon before kissing him again, sucking a mark on the soft skin under Jon’s jaw to make him squirm.

Jon buries his face in Tormund’s neck, inhaling deeply. Wood and warmth and winter, the unmistakable scent of pine needles that to Jon now means _home_.

He sighs and arches against Tormund as much as he can, until there is not a single place where their bodies don’t touch. He kisses all of the skin he can reach, following the winding path of the ink at Tormund’s shoulder with his tongue.

Even now Tormund is talking, murmuring between kisses, against Jon’s skin, “I wish you could see yourself like I do right now, Jon, you are perfect.”

Jon’s first instinct is to deny it, to shy away from the praise, but Tormund catches him before he can even protest. “You are. Kind, and strong. Beautiful.” He sounds so unbelievably sincere, there’s nothing Jon can do to hide the red blush burning across his cheeks.

“A bit dense, but at least you’re pretty,” Tormund jokes, lightly pinching Jon’s side to startle a laugh out of him. Honestly, Jon is too far gone to even think about taking offense. After all this time he’s getting used to Tormund’s overwhelming kind of teasing.

Tormund leans down to touch his forehead to Jon’s, laughing again deep in his chest, a sound so rich and beautiful Jon wonders if it could be possible to bottle it up. To keep for himself and get drunk on it like a rare Dornish wine .

“Boy, the things you do to me,” Tormund whispers.

And if Jon could find the words he’d tell him how mutual that is, that he never wants this feeling to stop, warm and golden like a summer morning. Jon would give him anything.

He takes Tormund’s hand, lacing their fingers together, the little scars and all their jagged edges fitting so perfectly together.

“Show me.”

The grin that lights up Tormund’s face is absurdly mischievous, and it’s Jon that laughs now, a breathy little thing that soon turns into moans when Tormund puts his mouth over a nipple, biting softly.

Jon’s fingers tangle in fiery red curls as Tormund lays a kiss on the center of his chest, and another, softer, sweeter, over the scar above his heart. Jon can do nothing but shiver and hold him tighter.

Tormund’s kisses trail lower, over Jon’s ribs and down his belly. He doesn’t know what to make of it, of this fierce tenderness threatening to burst in his chest. In Tormund’s arms he almost feels like something precious, something worthy, whole.

Jon speaks Tormund’s name in what sounds nearly like a plea, needing to be touched, wanting _more_. But Tormund is in no hurry, seemingly guided by the sole purpose of driving him insane. He’s taking his sweet time mapping out the planes and dips of Jon’s body, finding all the places that make his breath hitch, his mouth everywhere but where Jon most needs it. He’s worrying another bruise on the crease of Jon’s hip when Jon curses and tugs at Tormund’s hair.

He lifts his head and cocks one eyebrow, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself. “Impatient, are we?”

“Fuck, Tor, can you just —“ every remark he might have had melts away as Tormund finally, _finally_ , puts his mouth on Jon’s cock.

He can’t help but moan, loudly, involuntarily straining up into Tormund’s mouth even as his hands hold him steady down the bed.

Tormund is good, too good at this, taking Jon with a focus and a wildness he’s seen before only on the battlefield. He moans around Jon’s length, confident and sure as Jon arches against every stroke of his tongue, trying his best to stifle his cries.

Nothing else exists but this, Tormund’s keen eyes, his mouth searing on Jon’s cock, Tormund’s big hands stroking warmth into his bones. Pleasure spreading slow and steady, flooding Jon’s veins like the sweetest mead.

Jon is not going to last much longer, but he doesn’t want it to be over. Not yet. Not before he’s had the chance to touch Tormund as well. He fists his hand into Tormund’s hair, trying to pull him away, chuckling at Tormund’s grunt of protest.

“Wait you - I want to feel you, too,” Jon sighs. He has to hold his breath as he takes in the sight of Tormund between his thighs, eyes wide and lips wet, his hair and beard an endearing mess of flame. He’s stunning.

Jon grabs at his shoulders and Tormund complies, falling against his body once more and shuddering when Jon wraps his hand around both their cocks, hard and spit-slick, already leaking. He eagerly opens his mouth to Jon’s kiss, moaning into it, and Jon is barely holding himself together, entirely overwhelmed by the taste of himself on Tormund’s tongue. Jon whines low in his throat, and tightens his hand around them, trying to set a slow, stroking motion, his movements eager even if faintly unfamiliar.

“Jon, wait—” Tormund murmurs, sounding a little out of breath. He shifts and moves them again above the furs, until Jon is hovering on top of him, braced on one arm. Jon’s hand, still wrapped around the both of them, is now trapped between their bodies. Tormund’s hands come up to frame Jon’s hips, his thumbs resting in the dip of his spine, pushing him down against his body.

“Alright?” Tormund asks as Jon gasps against the friction, screwing his eyes shut.

“Tormund,” he chokes out. “Yes. Yes — _fuck_ ,”

“Good — Just like this, good boy.”

It feels like coming alive all over again, so intense Jon can hardly breathe. He can’t stop kissing Tormund, wet and open mouthed, breath hot between them as Tormund starts moving his hips as well, chasing the movement of Jon’s hand.

Some distant part of him knows they’re being too loud, but he cannot bring himself to care. Not when it feels so perfect, skin to skin, the warm slide of their bodies igniting a fire behind Jon’ ribs.

There’s not much he can do but let himself be moved by Tormund’s hand on his hips, rocking against him, cocks smearing damp on both their bellies, slick in Jon’s hand. It’s hardly skilled, he knows. He never even dared to think about doing _this_ with other men before Tormund, but now he wouldn’t have it any other way. Jon is glad it’s him. And Tormund, neck bared and lips parted, doesn’t seem to complain either.

Jon quickens his hand, barely holding back a whimper as he feels Tormund tremble under him. “Perfect, Jon,” Tormund sighs hoarsely, “My sweet crow, feels so good-“

Whatever Tormund was saying gets lost into a string of words Jon doesn’t understand. By the low growling quality of them, Jon thinks they could be curses.

The heat gathering low in Jon’s spine is almost unbearable, pleasure building so fast and all-consuming he feels about to break apart in Tormund’s hands.

“Please,” Jon breathes. Not even knowing what he’s begging for. _Please hold me tighter._ _Please don’t let go._ “Gods, Tor—“

It’s easy to surrender, to let the feeling of Tormund’s body, of his fierceness and his warmth -so much warmth- overtake him completely and bring him over the edge.

Tormund surges up to kiss him hard, biting at his lip. Jon shakes as he comes, panting and clutching him close. It doesn’t take Tormund much longer to follow, with a low cry of Jon’s name on his lips, spilling over his hand after a few quick pulls.

He immediately wraps Jon up in his arms, kissing him again and again, soft and lingering, pushing back sweat soaked curls to press a kiss over his brow as well. They move and settle on their sides, close together, mindless of the sticky mess between their bodies.

Jon is openly staring. His heart aches, struck by the sight of Tormund like he had never seen him before: flushed and loose limbed and lovely in the firelight.

He doesn’t have it in him to feel embarrassed though, not when Tormund is looking at him with just as much awe, whispering sweet nothings in the old tongue. Jon wants to learn what it means, wants to be able to say it back to him one day. He can feel adoration etched in every word.

They lie quietly for a few moments, tired and sated, their legs tangled together under the furs, sweat cooling on their skin. Jon’s mind is blissfully quiet, and he’s starting to drift off when Tormund speaks again.

“Ah, this will be such a story to tell.”

Jon buries a groan into Tormund’s shoulder, not particularly eager to share the same fate of the she-bear in his tales. “What story?”

“About how I stole myself a pretty King Crow.” Tormund huffs, ruffling Jon’s hair.

“You didn’t steal _shit._ ”

“I did!”

“You didn’t!”

Tormund laughs again and nudges Jon’s chin with a knuckle, making him meet his eyes. “I took you to my bed, and you haven’t slit my throat,” he says with a satisfied grin, “It means I stole you.”

Jon shakes his head, wild curls falling over his eyes, he’s sure he’s blushing, and smiling, helpless as so often Tormund makes him feel.

“Gods, you’re such an arse,” he says, half-heartedly swatting at Tormund’s chest, yelping when his wrist gets caught in a strong grip and pinned to the bed.

Tormund looms over him, his eyes twinkling, “The prettiest crow in the whole North” he says, “King-beyond-the-Wall.” Jon rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too, he can’t help it.

“Shut it! I’m no king,” he laughs, and cranes his neck up to kiss Tormund again. It is after all the most effective way to make him stop talking.

He could get used to this, he thinks, to the feel of being wanted, welcome. To Tormund’s kisses and the blinding sun of his laugh. He _can_ get used to this, because he has nowhere else to be, no further duty or vow to chain him down, nothing but this new home in the True North and the warmth within it.

Yet some part of him can’t help but wonder if it’s all temporary, if this kind of happiness is something that will be taken away from him one day.

Thoughts of kings and wars and loss cloud his mind for a moment, dimming the bright joy he felt until then. Tormund seems to sense this, and caresses Jon’s brow until his frown eases.

Tormund settles his head on Jon’s shoulder, one heavy arm thrown over his waist to gather him close and leaves one last, quick kiss on the crook of his neck.

“Sleep now, Jon,” he says softly.

Jon stays awake a while longer though, brushing absentmindedly at fire-kissed curls as he feels Tormund’s breath grow deeper, smiling when he starts to snore soon after.

His gaze lingers on the little scars on Tormund’s forehead and across the bridge of his nose, on the bushy set of his eyebrows and his pale lashes, on the freckles scattered all over his skin. It’s impossible to look away from him, this strange, loud wildling that holds his heart. Jon feels alight with an emotion he dares not name yet.

All the remaining concerns about the South fall away as he feels Tormund’s warm body against his and knows, with absolute certainty, that he’ll fight to keep this, for as long as the Gods will allow.

Jon closes his eyes, falling quickly asleep, and his dreams carry within the promise of spring.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so so much for reading!! Please leave kudos and/or comments and if you want you can find me on twitter at @ash_and_starlight (where I mostly post art and cry)


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